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Geake nodded gravely, with set face.

“I’ve heard since,” went on the seaman, “that these were bits, so to say, belongin’ to the Leeward Islands, about eighty miles sou’west o’ St. Kitt’s. Our boat must ha’ driven past St. Kitt’s, but just out o’ sight; or perhaps we’d passed a peep of it in the night-time. Well, as you’ll be guessin’ the boat was pretty nigh to one o’ these islands, or I shouldn’ ha’ heard the wash. Half a mile off it was, I dessay, an’ a pretty big wash. This was caused by the current, no doubt, for the wind was nex’ to nothin’, an’ no swell around the boat. What’s more, the current was takin’ us, broadside on, pretty well straight for the rocks. There was no rudder an’ only one oar left i’ the boat; an’ that was broke off short at the blade. But I managed to slip it over the starn an’ made shift to keep her head straight. Her nose went bump on the shore, an’ then she swung round an’ went drivin’ past: me not havin’ strength left to put out a hand, much less to catch hold an’ stop the way on us. We might ha’ driven past an’ off to sea again, if it hadn’ been for a spit o’ rock that reached out ahead. This brought us up short, an’ there we lay an’ bump’d for a bit. I dessay it took me half an hour to get out over the side: an’ all the time I kept hold o’ the broken oar. I dunno why I did this: but it saved my life afterwards. Hav’ee got such a thing as a drop o’ cider in the house?”

“We go upon temperance principles here,” said Geake. He rose and brought a jug of water and a glass.

“That’ll do,” said the wanderer, and helped himself. “Na’mi used to take a glass o’ beer wi’ her meals, I remember. Well, as I was agoin’ to tell you, havin’ got out o’ the boat, I’d just sense enough left to clamber up above high-water mark, an’ there I sat starin’ stupid-like an’ wonderin’ how I’d done it. Down below, the boat was heavin’ i’ the wash an’ joltin’ ‘pon the rocks, an’ I watched her–bump, bump, up an’ down, up an’ down–wi’ Jeff jamm’d by the shoulders i’ the bows, and glazin’ up at me wi’ a silly blank face, like as if he couldn’ make it all out. As the tide rose him up nearer, I crawled away further up. Seemed to me he an’ the boat was after me like a sick dream, an’ I grinned every time the timbers gave an extry loud crack. At last her bottom was stove, an’ she filled very quiet an’ went down. The wind was fresher by this an’ some heavy clouds comin’ up. Then it rained. I don’t rightly know if this was the same day or no: can’t fit in the days an’ nights. But it rained heavy. There was a quill-feather lyin’ close by my hand–the rock was strewed wi’ feathers an’ the birds’ droppin’s–an’ with it I tried to get at the rain-water that was caught in the crannies o’ the rocks. While I was searchin’ about I came across an egg. It was stinkin’, but I ate it. After that, feelin’ a bit stronger, I’d a mind to fix up the oar for a mark, in case any vessel passed near an’ me asleep or too weak to make a signal. I found a handy chink i’ the rock to plant it in, an’ a rovin’ pain I had in my stomach while I was fixin’ it. That was the egg, I dessay. An’ my head in a maze, too: but I’d sense enough to think now what a fool I was not to have took Jeff’s shirt off’n, to serve me for a flag. Hows’ever, my own bein’ wringin’ wet, an’ the sun pretty strong just then, I slipped it off an’ hitched it atop o’ the oar to dry an’ be a flag at the same time, till I could rig up some kind o’ streamer, out o’ the seaweed. An’ then I was forced to vomit. And that’s about the last thing, Mister Geake, I can mind doin’. ‘Tis all foolishness after that. They tell me that a ‘Merican schooner, the Shawanee, sighted my shirt flappin’, an’ sent a boat an’ took me off an’ landed me at New Orleens. My head was bad–oh, very bad–an’ they put me in a ‘sylum an’ cured me. But they took eight year’ over it, an’ I doubt if ’tis much of a job after all. I wasn’ bad all the time, I must tell you, sir; but ’tis only lately my mem’ry would work any further back ‘n the wreck o’ the barque. Everything seemed to begin an’ end wi’ that. ‘Tis about a year back that some visitors came to the ‘sylum. There was a lady in the party, an’ something in her face, when she spoke to me, put me in mind o’ Na’mi, an’ I remembered I was a married man. Inside of a fortnight, part by thinkin’–’tis hard work still for me to think–part by dreamin’, I’d a-worried it all out. I was betterin’ fast by that. Soon as I was well enough to be discharged, I worked my passage home in a grain ship, the Druid, o’ Liverpool. I was reckonin’ all the way back that Na’mi’d be main glad to see me agen. But now I s’pose she won’t.”